


On Second Thought

by Sporadic_Writer



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:29:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9143032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sporadic_Writer/pseuds/Sporadic_Writer
Summary: Clint juggled his water bottle.  “Do you think I should ask Coulson out?”“Do you like him that way?” Natasha asked.  “That's the more logical question.”Clint didn't say anything.  Coulson was a nice enough guy, with a snarky sense of humor that Clint liked, but it showed up sporadically, and being in a relationship with someone so self-contained made Clint uncomfortable.  Once he had an emotional connection with someone, he wanted to learn about their insecurities and share his own, and he wasn't sure Coulson could loosen up like that.  He liked the man's cool, deadpan professional demeanor out in the field, but he didn't want someone emotionally constipated in a romantic setting.





	

“Coulson wants your paperwork,” Natasha said solemnly, as she scraped together the crumbs from her slice of apple pie.

 

“What?” Clint jerked his head up and discreetly wiped at his mouth in case he'd actually started drooling during his half-doze. “I turned in all my paperwork on the last mission.” At least, he thought he did. The past couple of days were still a little hazy, and he was zombie-walking his way through them. He could drink more coffee, but the side effects were getting in the way of his ability to stay still and hidden for long periods of time.

 

“Then he's staring for another reason.” Natasha licked the filling from her fork and then reached over to pat Clint on the shoulder. Her little smirk wasn't reassuring. “If we have to take you down for some reason, I'll do it, okay? I'll make it quick and painless.”

 

“Funny,” Clint groused. He contemplated his cooling soup and clumsily dropped his spoon onto the floor. Natasha glanced down and gave him a skeptical look; he widened his eyes at her. “Whoops, it was an accident. I need another one.”

 

While he stood at the cutlery counter, he slowly picked out a spoon and held it briefly at an angle. Nat was right: Coulson's eyes were right on him. Why? Natasha's jokes aside, he didn't think that he had done anything lately to piss off his superiors.

 

He turned back to his table and deliberately caught Coulson's gaze. To Clint's surprised delight, the other agent flushed noticeably before hurriedly looking elsewhere.

 

Clint slid back into his seat. “You're right. That is so weird. Hey, I don't have anything on my face, right?”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes and dug out a pocket mirror and handed it to him. Clint studied himself; he had some pretty dark bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep during his latest mission, but he didn't think that was cause for so much fascination. On the other hand, maybe Coulson was deciding whether he needed to put Clint on leave. It would be a pain to get reinstated if Medical gave him a failing mark for his current health status.

 

“I think I'll take a nap.” Clint fished out the rest of his pasta shells from the stew and slurped some more broth before busing his tray. He nodded to Nat and headed out the cafeteria, walking right past Coulson's table. He didn't turn around, but he could tell that the man was staring again.

 

Creepy.

 

 

Clint was about to jump onboard the helicopter when he heard his name being shouted. Coulson strode up to meet him and handed over a narrow case that fit smoothly into Clint's hands.

 

“What's this?” Clint asked curiously. “Hey, it's my bow.”

 

Coulson smiled slightly. “It was more efficient for me to bring it to you.”

 

“I thought the mission wasn't supposed to have anything specific to Hawkeye.”

 

“During the initial planning, you mentioned that you felt more confident with a bow than a gun.”

 

“Yeah, but—” Clint was surprised. Coulson had attended the planning, but an emergency had pulled him out half-way through, and Clint hadn't gotten the impression that his complaint was taken very seriously. And it wasn't like he didn't know his way around an arsenal of guns and knives, not to mention, grenades.

 

“I discussed it with Agent Hill, and she agreed that the mission is important enough for you to have all the equipment that you might need. If it takes using your bow to get the job done, then take it with you.”

 

“Huh, okay, thanks for bringing it. I got to say, though, it's really disturbing to know that someone could just get into my room like that,” Clint said just to give the man a hard time. He wasn't expecting Coulson to blanch and lose his mild smile.

 

“I didn't invade your privacy,” Coulson said stiffly. “This is the alternate bow you keep in the assets locker.”

 

Clint blinked in surprise. “Yeah, I know, Coulson; I was just joking.” He tried to find some way to defuse the tension, wishing he hadn't been so cavalier with a senior agent.

 

“Get your ass up here, Hawkeye!” Hill finally barked from where she was already ensconced in a seat.

 

Thankful for the interruption, Clint gave Coulson an awkward nod and then jogged quickly over to the hovering helicopter. He jumped easily onboard and gave Hill a cocky salute as he buckled his seat belt next to her.

 

Clint opened the case and brushed his fingers across the body of his bow, relishing the smooth wooden texture and the tautness of the strings. Something vaguely uneasy in him began to disappear, and he relaxed against his seat, humming contentedly underneath his breath. He needed to focus on the mission, but he made a mental note to check that he and Coulson were good later.

 

 

“Wait, he's a bigot, but you want Coulson and me to play happy houses as his new neighbors? How is that going to help our mission?” Clint hated sounding dumb, but this new mission statement sounded pretty ridiculous.

 

“Play it by ear, Barton. If Collins reciprocates the neighborly act, then keep your nose clean, and make Coulson your brother or cousin or deadbeat college roommate.” At this point, Fury and Clint both looked contemplatively at Coulson and smirked, Fury because he called Coulson 'Cheese' in their down time and had definitely seen the man unshaven and in sweats, and Clint because he couldn't picture it in his head but really wanted to.

 

Coulson just smoothed his dress shirt and adjusted his silver tie pin. Then he gave them a pointed look.

 

“All right, if you don't get anywhere in a few weeks, then be as flamboyant as you need to be to get him going, and we'll send someone to pick him up. I don't need to tell you how to cause trouble,” Fury concluded.

 

Clint wondered what it would be like to live with Coulson. So far, in the name of being undercover, he'd shared living space with Natasha, Sitwell, Hill, and a bunch of junior agents too unobtrusive for him to really remember. Living with Natasha had been great, and sometimes Clint thought wistfully about making another go at a relationship, but somehow they just didn't click in a romantic way, and Clint hated being out of synch with his closest friend. Sitwell had been the chill, older college friend that he never had, and their mission apartment had almost turned into a frat house by the time they finished their goals. Hill...the less said about that experience, the better. Clint still felt damn sorry for their neighbors, who were no doubt still wondering if that abusive couple next door hadn't committed murder-suicide.

 

As it turned out, living with Coulson was like...living with Coulson. Clint couldn't find a different way to describe it, but when he tried to tell Natasha that, she just nodded understandingly.

 

After lugging in their suitcases, they left everything still packed in the living room and went exploring the 1000 sq. ft. house that was theirs for the duration. In the doorway of the master bedroom, Clint paused, with Coulson behind him. “Hmm, well, it was considerate of Logistics to order us a king-sized bed in case we needed it,” Coulson mused.

 

“Coulson, this is Logistics. Do we even have another bed in the house?” Clint asked skeptically. The other agent paused, clearly nonplussed, and in mute agreement, they checked out the other bedroom: nothing.

 

“Well, we can either sleep in shifts, or you can take my word that I'll keep to my side of the bed if you do the same,” Coulson gamely offered.

 

“Eh, Natasha told me that I sleep like a corpse. We can share,” Clint said dismissively. “Let's talk about cooking duties. I know how to make about five proper entrees without my cookbook, and I can make another three by throwing random junk together, as long as your taste buds aren't too choosy. Your turn.”

 

“The usual for a single man,” Coulson said wryly. “Mac and cheese; a few simple casseroles; ramen fancied up with toppings.”

 

Clint shook his head. “I'm disappointed, Coulson. I thought you were supposed to be a catch. No Five Star Michelin meals?”

 

“Tell you what, Barton,” Coulson shot back. “You round up the exotic ingredients, and I'll do the cooking.”

 

Clint laughed in response, thinking that the mission didn't seem too bad so far. After all, Coulson had a personality. But that bit of humanity that the man showed on the first day seemed to disappear by the start of the second.

 

Every time Clint ended up living with someone on a mission, they gradually shed the professional persona to some degree and showed him a decent picture of their actual personality and behavior in their off time. Coulson, though, seemed the same as ever. They ate their meals together for the most part, shared the chores based on a chart Coulson had drawn up, waited politely in turns for the single bathroom and shower, and kept perfectly to one side of the bed. Clint thought he was experiencing the world's most perfect roommate experience, and to his surprise, it was actually a little disquieting.

 

After the second week of playing Collins's neighbors and not making much headway into gaining the man's confidence, Clint broached the topic with Coulson. “I don't think we're getting anywhere with the nice neighbors act, so we should move to Plan B.”

 

Coulson, who was dressed in his usual pressed shirt and formally knotted tie, folded the newspaper neatly before looking at him thoughtfully. “I agree. Collins doesn't seem to be the sociable type, so we'll have more success in provoking him into rash action.”

 

Clint flipped the veggie omelet around and seasoned it a little more with garlic powder, pepper, and salt. He plated it, gave it to Coulson, who thanked him politely, and started a new omelet, one with more parmesan cheese. “He goes out to buy groceries every Saturday around 4:00. We could work in our front yard and steal a few kisses, something like that.”

 

Coulson was silent for a moment, clearly thinking it over, before nodding slowly. “We can try that approach this weekend, and if it doesn't work, we can try something more obvious.”

 

“I'd be happy to corner him with a conversation about my wonderful honey-buns,” Clint said earnestly, folding his omelet over the mushrooms and bell peppers. He couldn't see the look on Coulson's face, but he could hear the snort of laughter. Clint flipped his omelet over and let it cook for a minute before sliding into the seat opposite of Coulson.

 

“I think that it would be best if you take the lead for this part,” Coulson said abruptly; his face was under control, but his hands were a little tight on his plate, and when he saw Clint noticing, he relaxed them immediately, letting them lie loosely, non-threateningly, on the table.

 

Clint chose his words carefully, as he tried to figure out the reasons behind Coulson's tension. Maybe he didn't feel comfortable getting so intimate with another guy? But he couldn't imagine a SHIELD operative being spooked by physical proximity; everyone ended up in everyone else's pockets at some point. It was the nature of working in such a tight-knit agency after all. Hell, they actually kept score for the most bunkmates on a mission. Surprisingly, Clint had heard that Fury himself was still the long-time record holder:; that was just so weird. “If you'd prefer that, then it's fine with me,” Clint decided to say. “We can work out some guidelines now ahead of time. The 'green light' and 'red light' areas.”

 

Coulson's face tensed at first, like he thought Clint was making fun of him, but he searched Clint's face warily and then accepted that Clint was just being professional. “We'll have to kiss on the lips to make it obvious,” Coulson finally said. “And I expect some hugging and intimate touching may be needed to make everything else look natural. But that will be all.”

 

“I can do that,” Clint agreed. Coulson just nodded, and they sat at the table in strained silence before Clint decided he might as well ask. “Look, Coulson, you can tell me to mind my own business, but if you've been in a bad situation before, then we can figure something else out.”

 

Coulson blinked, clearly taken off guard, and opened his mouth to say something before closing it with a click of teeth. It was pretty funny, but Clint was waiting to hear what the man had to say. “That's not why...Barton, I was trying to make sure I didn't overstep _your_ boundaries. I—I'm fortunate to not have anything like that happen to me.”

 

Coulson sounded a bit perturbed, and he was starting to repeat himself, so Clint just interrupted to put the conversation out of its misery. “Okay, that's good. I didn't want to...” Clint had no idea how to say the words 'screw you up' without sounding like a jackass. “Right, okay, we're good then,” Clint said inanely, and Coulson just nodded back, with a pained expression, so they left it at that.

 

On the positive side, the making out later didn't seem as awkward.

 

 

Clint pulled open the Subway door, the bells jangling merrily with the movement. He headed to the growing line by the counter filled with sandwich makers busily throwing together meats and veggies for their fantastic sandwiches. Clint ordered a roast beef with sourdough and followed his growing sandwich, answering whether he wanted jalapeños and what sauces. Instead of going back to SHIELD, he sat on a nearby park bench and took the time to people-watch and eat his sandwich slowly. When he was down to the last inch, he took it apart and just ate the fillings and tossed the soggy bread. It was a good lunch, one of the few truly relaxing moments he experienced while working for SHIELD.

 

He felt really lazy after the long lunch, but he wanted to get some archery practice done before he got assigned to another mission, and he was a little worried about his bow. After a long practice in the range, Clint unstrung his bow and examined the body, taking a soft cloth and running it over the long arch of wood. He checked carefully, certain that he had heard something creak too loudly earlier; he moved his fingers across each millimeter, frowning in concentration.

 

Footsteps echoed across the room, and Agent Cohen, a newer member of SHIELD, approached him with a tablet. “Agent Barton,” she intoned solemnly, face grim in a manner that contrasted sharply with her sweet pixie face. “I am here to inform you that all active agents must submit an additional mission report. ASAP.”

 

“Really?” Clint groaned. “What, do they make a new form every time they start itching to use their document software?”

 

Cohen didn't smile. “It's important. I sent you the file about five minutes ago. Please have it completed no later than Friday.”

 

Clint watched her retreating back and went to find Natasha.

 

Natasha, as his hunch told him, was in the Zen Room. It was actually called the Harmony Lounge, according to the door placard, but come on, it had mini waterfalls, four fountains, a rock garden, and large, bouncy mats instead of couches and chairs. Natasha was kneeling by the rock garden and using the small rake to draw straight lines in the sand. Clint sat next to her and waited for the last design to be finished before he started talking. “Did you get a new form to fill out for your mission with Giulietta?”

 

Natasha gave him a curious look and took out her cell phone. After checking her e-mail, she said very succinctly. “No. And I'm happy.”

 

“Huh, that's weird.” Clint shrugged. “I got the weirdest vibes off Cohen earlier when she told me about it.

 

“They're being mean to me, Nat,” he then whined, but Natasha's half-hearted 'uh huh' told him clearly that he wasn't going to get much sympathy from her, and if he didn't shut up, she might put him into a chokehold. That woman took her introspection time seriously.

 

He started to leave Natasha alone to her peace and quiet when a thought occurred to him. “Hey, Nat, Giulietta's a technician, level 5, right?”

 

At Natasha's nod, Clint felt that he had a key piece of the mystery, but he figured that his curiosity would only be satisfied if he actually opened the file and read over the forms.

 

Clint frowned at the questions on his screen. They seemed oddly focused on the personal interactions among the agents on the mission teams. He scrolled down to the third page and scanned it; his eyes stopped abruptly on the fifth question. “What the hell?”

 

Fifteen minutes later, Clint lifted his legs and slid through the half-open office window and almost landed in Coulson's lap, as the other man had whirled around in alarm while still sitting in the desk chair. Coulson shoved him away reflexively before his eyes widened in horror, and he grabbed for Clint, one hand too tight on a wrist and the other wrinkling Clint's t-shirt beyond all help of an iron.

 

“Damn it, Barton!” Coulson shouted angrily, relief and shock warring together on his face. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

 

“I had a question, and you told me to go away,” Clint said reasonably, sprawling into the spare chair that he'd dragged into Coulson's office at some random point.

 

Coulson gave him a nasty look. “I told you, Agent Barton,” he said, stressing Clint's title. “I can't talk with you right now. You can wait two months, like I told you, or speak with Agent Cohen. She's just as capable as I am.”

 

“You have seniority,” Clint pointed out because Coulson seemed to be missing the obvious. That, and Clint never asked—bugged—anyone else about paperwork. They had a routine going, and Clint was loath to lose it.

 

“That's the problem, Barton,” Coulson said, patience visibly reaching a breaking point. “I'm sure you have read the revised list of mission protocols. We can't be in a room alone together.”

 

“Okay, gotcha,” Clint said agreeably; then he stuck his head out Coulson's door and grabbed the first junior agent to walk down the hall. The newbie squeaked in alarm, and Clint absently disarmed him and pulled his poorly hidden Ipod from his pants pocket. “Listen to some music, and let me borrow you for a minute, okay, thanks.”

 

Coulson stared at him with exasperation, a rather familiar expression. Clint couldn't place it until he realized that Nat looked the exact same when she wanted to beat some sense into him. He thought about taking a photo to show Nat but knew that Coulson would take it the wrong way, so he refrained.

  
“We're not alone now,” Clint said with a smirk that quickly fell away as he refocused on his purpose for ambushing Coulson. “Why do I have to fill out this form, Coulson? What's going on? SHIELD's asking a lot of questions about sexual harassment and misbehavior on missions, but my memory's really good, and I remember you being the politest Fake Boyfriend I have ever partnered.”

 

Coulson's eyes flickered, but he didn't answer.

 

Clint poked harder, looming over Coulson's desk as though he could intimidate the other man with the force of sheer will. “Tell me, Coulson. Is someone out to get you?”

 

Coulson rubbed hard at his temples. He looked obliquely at the junior agent who had obediently turned to the wall and was bobbing his head to what sounded like Lady Gaga's “Paparazzi.” “I can't tell you much, Barton,” Coulson said heavily. “But no, I'm on the periphery of this problem. Suffice to say, all the senior handlers' interactions with subordinates needs to be accounted for because a SHIELD counselor came forth with information about a particular handler misusing his position.”

 

Clint's stomach dropped, and the smirk faded from his face. “Fuck, that's disgusting.”

 

Coulson's lips thinned. “I know.”

 

They sat there together in silence for a long while until the junior agent finally got a bit fidgety.

 

“I'll see you in two months then,” Clint said, turning to face the door and tapping the junior agent on the shoulder, gesturing for him to leave first.

 

“Of course,” Coulson responded, as calm and professional as always. Before Clint walked out the door though, the man added quietly, “Thank you for your trust, Barton.”

 

Clint thought about saying something, but their eyes met, and he just nodded mutely before continuing through the doorway.

 

 

“Better make the call,” Clint told Coulson blandly. He kept his arrow nocked and mouthed an 'ouch' every so often in commiseration with the agents getting their asses handed to them by Big Blonde.

 

Coulson didn't say anything, but Clint could see him standing across from the tent, head slightly tilted that way he had when he was fascinated by something. Big Blonde strode confidently to the mystery hammer and lay his hands on it reverently before making several forceful tugs, each one as fruitless as the last. When he finally had to give up, the big guy slumped over in despair, and his shoulders shook in apparent sobs.

 

“Damn,” Clint could hear Coulson mutter unconsciously into his mic. His voice was filled with wistful disappointment.

 

“Don't worry, Coulson,” Clint said consolingly as he dropped down from the lift right next to Coulson. “I'm sure you'll meet a real E.T. some day.”

 

A passing technician gave him a look filled with awe, apparently dumbstruck by Clint calling a senior agent by his name instead of by 'sir.' Clint supposed that he was being a bad influence, but Coulson hadn't cared about the small informality when he first did it, so he had just continued with it.

 

Coulson still looked a little put out, but he laughed easily at Clint's joke.

 

“Want to get something to eat?” Clint asked. “You just came down here a few hours ago; you didn't have dinner yet, I bet.”

 

“That depends. Is the canteen set up properly? I don't want microwave-defrosted green beans with odd-tasting mashed potatoes this time. That was a night's worth of food poisoning I could have done without.”

 

“You're in luck. We have a working oven this time, so we have store-bought chicken pot pies for dinner.”

 

“Store-bought only?” Coulson questioned with mock disdain before following Clint to the picnic tables clustered together.

 

Clint dug into his pot pie with relish after smashing the top down into the filling to make sure that the crust got its share of the soup. Coulson just watched him with a faint smile. “Not that hungry?” Clint asked, remembering not to talk with his mouth full. He didn't need to show off his chewing skills or his tongue—it wasn't that kind of dinner.

 

“I am,” Coulson contradicted, poking at a piece of broken crust and spooning it to his mouth. “I was just thinking.”

 

Clint studied him. “Penny for your thoughts? Or here.” Clint handed over a small stack of napkins, worth their weight in gold on this abrupt—and thus minimally prepared—mission.

 

Coulson sounded hesitant. “I gather this might be counterproductive since you just followed my orders earlier, but do you think I was wrong to wait?”

 

Clint arched an eyebrow at him. “You mean, while you gathered intelligence on Warrior Blondie and figured out that he A) was really familiar with the weird artifact, B) has major fighting skills, and C) seems depressed enough to probably let something important slip, and D) has parent issues since he called the hammer 'mummy'?”

 

“I still don't think I heard that last thing right,” Coulson said musingly.

 

Clint tapped his spoon on his own pot pie, reminding Coulson of his own rapidly cooling one. “If it really bothers you, Coulson, then, fine, I give you permission to be a person and have curiosity and intuition.”

 

“That's all I ever wanted, Barton,” Coulson said dryly.

 

“Really?” Clint asked earnestly. “That's so sad. Now eat your pot pie.”

 

“Yes, Barton.” Coulson rolled his eyes. “I just want your everlasting approval and your bossy company during my mealtimes.”

 

Clint smirked. He might be suffering the effects of low sleep, but he was still alert enough to catch the note of sincerity in the other man's sarcastic words.

 

 

“Hey, Natasha,” Clint hollered to the other side of the room as they did crunch-ups on the high bars. “How did Hill come on to you?”

 

Completely unflustered, Natasha hung by her ankles before grabbing the bars with her hands and doing a back flip to land on the ground, one inch from her water bottle. She splashed her face with it and wiped the excess with a towel. “She asked me to spar, and when I got her in a headlock, she said to me, 'So, you know you can break my neck pretty easily. Why don't we go on a date?'”

 

“Wow, that's...actually really unromantic.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “You'll need to help me embroider it on my trousseau when we get married. Why are you asking?”

 

Clint figured it was a gesture of trust that Nat told him the story before questioning why he was so interested when he had only waggled his eyebrows and offered to give Hill the “Break Her Heart, I Break You” speech when he found out the two women were involved.

 

“I'm not sure. I just want to know what happens when a senior agent gets interested in an asset,” Clint admitted. “I think maybe Coulson's interested, but he hasn't really said anything. Or maybe I'm just imagining things. It would be really embarrassing if he's just trying to be nice.”

 

“Coulson's a cautious guy,” Natasha pointed out. “Maybe he's waiting for you to make the first move so that he knows he's not putting undue pressure on you.”

 

“Hill just asked you out; she didn't beat around the bush,” Clint countered. “And I definitely saw her eyeing you all the time before she asked you out.”

 

“Maria asked me months before the sexual harassment debacle came out last year. We had a long talk about our expectations; then we discussed our relationship with HR and filed some forms.” Natasha pulled her hairband out and ran a comb through loose sweaty strands.

 

Clint made a face with distaste. “You know, I was actually a little surprised to find that even SHIELD could get vipers in the nest. I guess this place really is home to me now. Did you ever work with the sick bastard? He was with me on the Monaco mission, but he kept his hands to himself.”

 

“I only met him once or twice,” Natasha said thoughtfully, thinking back. “He only recently placed as a senior agent, remember. And we've mainly worked with the handlers who have a lot of experience with fringe groups and agents with sealed records.”

 

Clint juggled his water bottle. “Do you think I should ask Coulson out?”

 

“Do you like him that way?” Natasha asked. “That's the more logical question.”

 

Clint didn't say anything. Coulson was a nice enough guy, with a snarky sense of humor that Clint liked, but it showed up sporadically, and being in a relationship with someone so self-contained made Clint uncomfortable. Once he had an emotional connection with someone, he wanted to learn about their insecurities and share his own, and he wasn't sure Coulson could loosen up like that. He liked the man's cool, deadpan professional demeanor out in the field, but he didn't want someone emotionally constipated in a romantic setting.

 

“I don't know,” Clint said honestly. “I still need to think about it. I guess there's no hurry though; it's not like either of us is going to die tomorrow.”

 

 

The Therapy Room—yes, it really was called that; Clint wasn't making stuff up this time—was one of the largest rooms in SHIELD. Everywhere the eye could see agents were punching bags because most of them got out mental stress by getting physical; smiling psychiatrists were cornering wary agents who'd missed one appointment too many; and solitary agents were meditating in the small cubicles built into the walls.

 

Clint found an open space before a punching bag and just considered it for a long time. No one bugged him, demanding that he throw a punch or get out; everyone in SHIELD knew that sometimes an agent just needed to work things out in their own head first. Something about the liquid black of the leather bag reminded him of Loki. The demigod's pupils had frequently contracted as his maniacal feelings fought with his unnervingly benign expression.

 

Clint landed a few punches half-heartedly before leaving the punching bag for someone else. He could pretend the bag was Loki, but his imagination was not that good, and it was not helping. The SHIELD agent who stepped past to use the bag thanked him with a sincere salute of the fingers, and Clint hated himself for being so grateful that she didn’t look at him with hatred or distrust. Instead, the look in her calm eyes was oddly sympathetic, and he soon recognized her from a mission he'd done last year with Sitwell. Fury had sent them to extract several captured SHIELD agents from their coerced stint in an underground cage fighting business. It had been ugly. Clint heard that some of the agents involved were still going to counseling after it was no longer mandatory for their reinstatements.

 

Clint kept his back to the wall, his eyes surveying the room a little less warily, and he saw that the other agents acknowledged his presence but were not particularly concerned. He remembered Natasha forcing him through the doors, hand on his back, as she insisted, “Don't underestimate them.”

 

Clint could have more easily ignored her well-meant advice, if it hadn't echoed some of the comments he'd overheard Fury say in a, cough, private, cough, conversation with Coulson when Clint had been first recruited.

 

“Part of me thinks he's a lucky punk twerp, but if we underestimate him, then we're looking at a really messy hindsight.”

 

Clint had forgotten his water bottle, so he bent towards the water fountain and let some of the weak spray moisten his face before wiping vigorously with the sleeve of his long-sleeved tee. Another t-shirted agent strolled past, with his towel around his shoulders, and he gave Clint a wry twist of the mouth. Clint nearly gave himself whiplash straightening his back and following Coulson's easy path through the equipment and preoccupied agents, as the man headed for one of the personal rooms.

 

Clint debated hurriedly with himself before deciding that he owed Coulson a free punch anyway, so the man might as well take him up on the offer sooner than later. “Hey, Coulson!” Clint shouted, wondering if the man would just ignore him.

 

Coulson turned around, demeanor as calm as usual, though his eyes were red-rimmed, and his mouth was a little tauter than usual with the pain he must still be feeling. Clint had memorized the medical report on Coulson's injury, and he remembered wincing in sympathy at a particularly descriptive bit about the spear scraping against the collar bone as it pierced Coulson's chest, narrowly missing his beating heart. “Barton,” Coulson acknowledged, his eyes traveling up and down Clint in a brief survey. “Enjoying the water fountain?”

 

Disarmed by Coulson's unexpected irreverence, Clint hunted around for the right words until Coulson dropped his smile, eyes crinkling in concern. “Are you okay, Clint?”

 

He couldn't handle it. “Damnit, Coulson! You're the one that got stabbed in the chest!” Clint exploded, yelling right into the man's face.

 

Coulson blinked at him, a bit dumbfounded, before apparently catching on. “You're the one that got brainwashed and forced to attack his fellows,” Coulson said mildly, turning to lean his back against the wall. “I wouldn't be too quick to rank physical pain over mental anguish.”

 

Clint didn't want to talk about it, but he couldn't tell Coulson to go to hell. He was already regretting not just letting the guy walk past with a simple acknowledgement. He had to make things complicated for himself.

 

“You don't want to talk about it, I'm sure,” Coulson said with perspicacity. “That's fine for now, but, Clint, sooner or later, you'll need to face what happened head on.”

 

“Isn't that the wrong body part to suggest, Coulson?” Clint snapped without thinking, and he blushed mortified red immediately. “I'm—” Fuck, how could he say something so low.

 

“Oh, I'm sure, Barton,” Coulson said smoothly. “But your hardheadedness seems like it'll serve you well. You should always go with your strengths, you know.”

 

Clint laughed humorlessly. “You aimed the wrong body part at Loki then.” And he felt all of a sudden that it was best if he left before he humiliated himself further. He nodded stiffly at Coulson and started to make his way out of the room.

 

“Wait, Clint.” The warm hand that landed on his shoulder felt like it should be comforting, but it felt more like a brand, and Clint flinched away, nearly tripping over a nearby gym bag on the floor.

 

“Don't. Okay?” The last thing Clint needed was pity, much less from one of the people he'd failed.

 

Coulson still called worriedly after him, but it was simple enough to just run away.

 

 

“Are we all here?” Stark demanded, not bothering to survey the group around him. “Last one gets two hours playing firefighter with Dummy...No, Thor, you can't volunteer for that.”

 

“Do you want us to sound off?” Rogers asked, and Clint stared hard at the man because he thought he heard a sarcastic edge to the tone. Captain America sure had some spice underneath dutiful soldier appearance.

 

“Sure, Cap,” Stark shot back. “Let's hear a snippet of song from everyone. You can start first since you already have your go-getter theme song all set.”

 

Before a fight could break out, Coulson interrupted, “What's your announcement, Stark?” And why do I have to be here, he didn't ask, but his exasperated expression said it all.

 

Stark looked smug, as he tapped away at his tablet, and a screen rolled down the wall of the meeting room. Clint blinked at it; he was pretty sure they had a regular whiteboard there just last Friday.

The screen dimmed for a moment before flashing to life with a giant blueprint, which glowed with different pastel colors as Tony switched from one square to another, each of which bore the name of an Avenger.

 

Banner didn't look surprised, and he just smiled quietly. He'd been living at Stark's mansion though, so undoubtedly, he'd already gotten wind of the man's architectural plans. “It looks great, Tony,” Banner said serenely. “Just let me know when to move in.”

 

Thor, who'd been staring with puzzlement at the revolving blueprint, lit up with comprehension. “Ah, I see; we shall have a mighty fortress! Your thoughtfulness knows no bounds, my friend!” Thor slapped Stark on the back, who rocked unsteadily from the force, but preened a little at the compliment.

 

Coulson's eyes were wide, and he stared happily at the blueprints with a disconcerting mixture of fanboy glee and professional assessment. “Just like the Justice League!” he breathed out in awe, and Clint would have made a cute comment, but well, he didn't have the privilege anymore.

 

Rogers didn't look very enthused about sharing living space with Stark, but he was as well-mannered as could be. “It would be convenient to have a common meeting place, if you really don't mind having us underfoot,” he said politely.

 

Stark shrugged dismissively. “If you all get annoying, I'll just stay at the mansion for a while.” Clint could see Rogers blink, stunned, and mouth the word 'mansion' to himself.

 

Clint caught Natasha's eye, and he could see the same concern cross her eyes. “Hey, Coulson,” Clint ventured. “Would SHIELD be okay with us moving our things to the Tower? Or should we do some kind of time-share?”

 

Coulson snapped to attention and wiped the childish glee from his features. He coughed awkwardly before replying, “Generally, I wouldn't recommend that you share a home since the concentration of superheroes could be an extremely tempting target for hostiles, but I expect that you can all handle it. I'll speak with Fury. SHIELD can review the number of agents living off-site and check whether any of them would be interested in living at headquarters. If we have no takers, then you and Natasha can keep your rooms there and have a primary residence in Stark Tower. I'll continue to be your liaison regardless.”

 

“Wait,” said Stark suddenly, who'd lost interest in the conversation earlier and was trying to engage Banner in a thumb war. “Are you saying 'no' to me? Hate to sound like a clichéd villain, but no one says 'no' to my fantastic tower.”

 

“...What?” Coulson looked confused for the first time Clint had ever seen.

 

“If you're our liaison, you're on the team,” Stark said like it was obvious. “Your floor is right below the Great American Icon's, if that's an incentive or something. Whatever floats your boat.”

 

“I,” Coulson hesitated. He darted an unhappy look at Clint, and Clint's stomach dropped. “I don't think that would be a good idea.. I think...it wouldn't be professional,” he ended weakly.

 

“It wouldn't be professional to live with the people you'll fight with?” Rogers asked curiously, and his gentle question probed for an explanation, but Clint had heard enough. He knew why Coulson wanted to keep his distance from them...no, just from Clint.

 

He heard the others call after him as he strode away, but nobody ran after him, and he could tell from the noises that Natasha and Coulson had begun arguing heatedly with each other while the rest of the Avengers tried to run interference.

 

 

 “I'm sorry,” Coulson said earnestly, standing right outside Clint's bolthole. Thanks for nothing, Natasha, Clint thought sourly, as he crossed his arms defensively.

 

“You keep apologizing to me, and I'm going to get a complex,” Clint snarked, a thick veneer of sarcasm covering his unease.

 

“I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable,” Coulson continued doggedly. “I know I stepped out of bounds last week when I invaded your personal space like that. I spoke with the other Avengers, and they understand that you might need some time to think about whether you'd be okay with—”

 

Coulson was the most confusing man Clint had ever met. Period. “Hey,” Clint interrupted the flood of words, which finally stuttered to a halt. “I'm not upset that you touched my shoulder. I didn't think that you were taking advantage of the situation. Okay?”

 

Coulson nodded cautiously, relief lightening his eyes. “Okay,” he echoed.

 

Clint would really have liked to leave it at that, but fair was fair. He sighed deeply as he stepped back from the doorway and gestured for Coulson to take a seat by the kitchen island.

 

“You want a mineral water or something?' Clint asked, rummaging through his mini fridge. He shuffled the cans and bottles around; he had a huge selection, but he couldn't remember when he bought it all, so he checked the expiration dates while waiting for Coulson's answer.

 

“If you have it. Regular water would be fine too.” Coulson was looking around and trying to look like he wasn't. Clint couldn't help but get a kick out of it.

 

“I'm really not that interesting, Coulson. And I don't have that many secrets. You probably know them all anyway since you have my file. You can walk around and check my stuff out, if you're curious. And you really need to stop treating me like I'm easily traumatized. It gets kind of insulting.”

 

Coulson laughed ruefully, and one of his legs started kicking unconsciously at the table's leg. When Clint handed him the water bottle, he pulled the paper label off and picked at it, little shreds of paper building into a small pile on the table. “I don't mean for you to think that way. I just care a lot about what you think.” Coulson paused there and looked embarrassed. “In case it wasn't already obvious, I find you very attractive.”

 

Trying not to feel too pleased, Clint spun his own bottle of mineral water around in his hands. “You're not so bad yourself, with the tailored suits and silk ties. But you know, dating right now would be really awkward.”

 

“It would be,” Coulson agreed reluctantly, his face turning downcast. There was a long pause, and the pile of shredded paper grew bigger.

 

“Let's just hang out then,” Clint decided. “We'll go to the flea market on Saturday. I'll pick you up at 9.”

 

Coulson raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought it was traditional to be considerate and ask about my convenience, Barton.”

 

“You can choose next time,” Clint said dismissively. He drank the rest of his water and tossed the empty into his recycling bin. “Come on, I'll help you pack your stuff and move into the Tower.”

 

“You don't have to—”

 

“Trust me, you don't want Stark to get involved,” Clint interrupted, shaking his head as he recalled how freaked out Rogers had gotten when the moving robots showed up at his door. He couldn't blame the guy; it was plain wrong that Stark had programmed them with surveillance cameras and lock-picking skills.

 

Anyway, he wasn't raised to be polite, like Coulson was. Once he got inside the man's apartment, he was going to be nosy and poke around and figure out the man behind the suits.

 

 

It was perfect weather for an outdoor activity. If it were a date, Clint would be pretty proud of himself for having such good timing. The cloudy weather kept the sunlight mild, and people milled around the booths and outspread carpets, examining cheap trinkets, collectibles, toys, books, and small household items.

 

Clint shoved his hands into the back of his jeans, as he rocked back a little in bemusement. He watched Coul—Phil, right, Phil—man, that was going to take a while before it stopped being weird. He watched Phil pick up a small music box and wind it up, the spring inside creaking a little with the strain. “All the Pretty Little Horses” tinkled sweetly out, and Clint could match the familiar melody with the right lyrics about the dapples and grays.

 

“It's pretty,” Clint said, checking the little price tag that tangled around the small stumpy legs of the music box. It seemed free of rust, and the paint job was still good. “Twenty bucks.”

 

Phil swiped a finger over the dusty cover and found no cracks; the music continued to play happily, and the spring worked away easily. “My niece would love this, and her birthday's coming up in July.”

 

“Your niece, huh. How old is she?”

 

“Twelve. She knows and loves everything about horses right now, and I've already given her a lot of stuffed toys, posters, CDs, jewelry. A music box would make a nice change.”

 

Phil paid for the music box with a crisp twenty dollar bill, and they continued to wander through the rest of the market. “Do you get to see your family often?” Clint asked curiously. Phil hardly mentioned his family, even during the lulls in various missions when everyone would start sharing offhand comments about their personal lives.

 

“About once a year I take the week off to visit my parents and my siblings. They all stayed in the same town where we grew up. I was the only one to leave and never come back,” Phil revealed easily. “I told them I work for the government, and they understand they can't ask too many questions.”

 

Clint stopped by a blanket with old copies of the _Dick Tracy_ comics. He picked one up and flipped through the pages. He remembered reading the comic with Barney late into the evenings, goggling at the flamboyant yellow coat and the special radio watch. “Must be nice to have an accepting family,” Clint said without thinking. But thankfully, Phil just nodded and kindly didn't bring up Clint's lousy older brother.

 

Phil nodded at the comics, which looked vibrant despite the tattered plastic covers protecting them. “Are you going to get those?”

 

Clint hesitated, and he was about to say 'no,' but those had been good days with Barney, and Clint didn't really remember those detective stories. Maybe they wouldn't be as good now, but with his mandated leave, he might as well find something to read. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, I'm going to get them. Just don't let your _Captain America_ books beat them up.”

 

Phil snorted, and Clint laughed as he handed the vendor $50 for the whole lot. The young woman put the comics into a sturdy cloth bag, and Clint let the reassuring weight swing from his hand before he put it over his shoulder. Phil watched him with a soft look, and Clint could feel a steady warmth growing in his chest, as he watched Phil right back. It was nice and comfortable, but, as the traffic of impatient people behind them grew, Clint finally suggested, “Want to get some lunch?”

 

Following the smell of spicy beef, they ended up standing in line for a crowded taco stand that boasted the best tacos in the state. Clint was so hungry he didn't care about the quality; he just wanted them crispy and filled to the brim with meat and lettuce. “So, was it a good date?” Clint asked, feeling a little shy.

 

“I thought you said this wasn't a date,” Phil said, looking carefully surprised, but a smile worked its way around his mouth, and he ducked his head a little.

 

“I changed my mind,” Clint said easily, and he grabbed Phil's free hand with a wink while they ordered six beef tacos, nachos, and two Gatorades. Phil's hand was strong and sure, and the long fingers curved nicely around his; Clint didn't let go until their order was ready, and they had to carry all their bags to the lunch area.

 

 


End file.
